He’d leave this parochial little country behind him without an ounce of regret.
And with any luck, he’d never have to return.
Chapter Three
Lindsay was very gladof the stout boots he wore as he walked to the bridge he’d spied from the summit of the Caldtoun Hill. By the time he reached it, the boots were ankle-deep in mud from his feet sinking into the soft, wet ground, over and over.
Thankfully, the bridge itself was free of mud. It led him right into the bustling heart of the city, delivering him to the middle of the High Street, the long, knobbly spine of the city that stretched from the Castle at one end to Holyrood Palace at the other. Between those royal houses dwelt every type of person imaginable, from the highest peer in the land to the meanest pauper.
The familiar reek that had teased at Lindsay’s nostrils in the carriage last night was very strong now, close to overwhelming. It was a scent that was rich with life in a way that made Lindsay’s hunkered-down beast stir within him again, interested.
It wasn’t just the smell that was familiar. The High Street was as busy as ever, a tangled throng of townspeople going about their business, hawking goods, gossiping, bartering and debating—all under the same grey sky as when Lindsay had been a boy, and in the same clipped, brusque voices. The mode of dress may have changed, but it looked as though little else had.
Wynne had rented comfortable apartments at Locke’s Court for their stay. It was a good address, just off the Canongate, and perfect for the sort of idle, wealthy gentleman Lindsay generally pretended to be. He headed that way, already dreaming of hot coffee and something hearty to eat.
Briefly, as he neared St. Mary’s Street, he paused, discombobulated. It took him a moment to understand why—until he realised that he was standing where the Nether Bow gate used to be—but was no longer. Now there was no physical barrier between the Canongate and the rest of the town.
Despite the gate being gone, there was still a noticeable change when Lindsay entered the Canongate proper. The crowds thinned, growing quieter and more polite, and there were fewer hawkers here. Even the sedan chairmen were quiet, their chairs neatly lined up in readiness as they waited for custom.
The inhabitants of the Canongate were easy to spot: finely dressed and well-spoken. Lindsay, in his present workmanlike attire and with no obvious occupation to explain his presence, stood out, garnering a few wary glances. He was glad when he was able to slip into the close that led to Locke’s Court, escaping further scrutiny.
The close was narrow and gloomy, but it opened out onto a sizeable, well-kept courtyard, empty but for a pair of ladies, strolling towards him, arm-in-arm. They were probably heading for the waiting chairmen outside, their gowns and slippers too fine for walking. As they drew closer, Lindsay noticed their matching suspicious expressions and stepped respectfully out of their path, sweeping off his hat as he made them an elegant leg.
“Good day, ladies,” he murmured as he bowed, glancing up at them from under his lashes and offering his most charming smile, letting admiration warm his gaze. In an instant, their frowns vanished, one of the women raising her fan to peep at him over the lacy rim while the other nodded a cooler greeting, her concerns apparently assuaged by his fancy manners—or perhaps by his pretty face. He watched them pass him by, then disappear into the close, their wide skirts brushing the dank walls.
Once they were out of sight, he discreetly nosed the air, searching for Wynne’s scent. After a moment, he had it and followed it to a stout wooden door on the south side of the courtyard. He rapped the door loudly, and a minute later it swung open, revealing Wynne himself, still wearing last evening’s clothes and looking exhausted and rumpled.
Wynne’s expression, at first taut with anxiety, slackened with relief at the sight of Lindsay, and for one brief moment, he closed his eyes. “Thank God,” he breathed. “You’re back.”
Lindsay’s chuckle was soft. Apologetic. “Poor Wynne. Were you up all night?”
Wynne opened his eyes again. “I could not sleep, sir.”
“I’m a wretch for worrying you,” Lindsay said, contrite. His usual, rather neutral accent was safely back in place now, the antique Scots dialect carefully buried again.
Wynne shook his head and stepped aside. “Come inside. I’ll have a bath drawn for you and a hot meal fetched—you must be starved.”
